what was left of the winter evening light was a soft blue gray, like cotton batting, and it looked as if you could reach out and touch it, but for the stark calligraphy of trees etched onto the sky.
at a certain point in winter, there is a slow-growing feeling that it has just begun and it will never end and there is no way to escape it. the feeling seeps out from the center of your body, somewhere in the heart, and you become aware of the fact that you are nothing but warm flesh wrapped in wool, protected only by wool. it is an almost calm feeling. it is like despair, but it is not pure despair; there remains the quiet, insane hope that if you cannot escape winter, you can befriend it, give it due respect. it is like God. insofar as you hold out the foolish, childish hope that you can dodge its wrath if not its omnipotent force.
all the seasons here in the north move toward their own end, except winter, which moves toward its center and sits there to see how long you can take it.
excerpted from the newest novel by marya hornbacher, the center of winter, harpercollins, page 78.
i am tired.
and sick.
i am self medicating.
and going to sleep.
sweet dreams.